Surrounded with stones, the fire blazed and warmed and separated booted feet from glowing flames. Porthos squatted and poked at the meat that cooked. The scent wafted upward, and he leaned forward, closed his eyes, and smelled the aroma. D'Artagnan chuckled and leaned against the underside of his upright saddle. He twisted a dried twig between his fingers and watched Athos shift uncomfortably when the heat of the fire became too hot.
The horses, hobbled near a narrow stream, grazed on a combination of grain they had been fed and dried winter grass. Mist collected over the water of the stream as the warmed earth met cold air. Clouds covered the moon and glowed despite their threats of snow. The skeletal branches of the tress canopied their site and swayed and creaked as subtle winds shifted and danced. The February weather had been colder than usual and with it came heavy fog, cold rains, and a few snow falls.
Athos scratched his left cheek, and the sound of his beard through his fingers grated his nerves. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on spread knees, and felt the heat of the flames against his face. He watched Porthos spear the meat and add several chunks of parsnips and carrots.
Porthos handed one spit to each of them before taking one for himself and leaning back against his saddle.
"He might come back," d'Artagnan said, and then took a bite of his food. He chewed around the hot meat and quickly huffed and waved his hand as he tried to keep it from burning his mouth.
Porthos shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. He blew on the spit to cool the food and ignored the concerned look from Athos. He curled his toes within his boots to preoccupy his mind. Porthos did not want to think about Aramis, his refusal to return, or his lack of remorse for leaving. He did not want to think about fighting a war without him, about long days and longer nights as the battles to come raged. He did not want to think about the loss of life that would follow. They were stronger together, they always had been, and always would be.
"Maybe he just needs time?" d'Artagnan said. He ran a hand over his face after he finished his meal and then tossed the spit into the fire. Flames ignited around it, and the stick twisted and blackened while being consumed.
"How much time?" Porthos asked, and then huffed. "He's 'ad plenty." He shook his head, rested his right arm on his knee, and chewed around a chunk of meat. "What 'e needs is a slap to the side of 'is 'ead."
Athos leaned back, tossed his spit into the fire, and entwined his fingers across his chest. "Aramis needs to decide for himself what is best —"
Porthos cocked an eyebrow. "When 'as Aramis ever made a good decision?" He looked at Athos. "Or do I need to remind you about that decision he made on a certain night with a certain somebody?"
D'Artagnan winced and then nodded. "Still…" he paused and then took a deep breath, "he only slept with her once… How would he know if the child is his?"
Portos huffed. "Women look at Aramis an' walk away pregnant."
Athos chuckled.
D'Artagnan shrugged. "Still…" He exhaled though puffed cheeks. "Just seems odd."
Porthos rubbed the top of his head and then yawned. "Just because you an' the misses are goin' at it like rabbits an' havin' a grand time while doin' it an' Constance isn't with child yet —"
"Hey now!"
"Maybe the queen — who'd been swimmin' in that water that's known for," Porthos shrugged, "makin' women fertile." He clenched his jaw and tighten his fist until his knuckles popped. "I could rip 'is 'ead off right now if 'e was 'ere."
"Then I'd say it's a good thing he's not here," d'Artagnan said and immediately grew uneasy when Porthos sent a look of daggers toward him.
"We've all made poor decisions," Athos said, "granted," he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the left, "not all of us have made decisions with such severe consequences, but poor decisions all the same —"
"You married an assassin, Athos," Porthos said with a frown.
Athos flashed cold eyes toward him.
Porthos took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've known 'im a long time… an' he just gave up everythin'… includin' his friendships — 'is brotherhood."
Athos rubbed his eyes and then watched the flames of the fire dance and the sparks fly upward and disappear into the night sky. He watched Porthos toss another log onto the fire and make himself comfortable as he leaned back and tossed a thin blanket over his shoulders. D'Artagnan continued to stare at the fire, but listened to the horses as they pulled dead grass from the ground, stomped their hooves, and swished their tails. The trickle of the creek was soothing, and the night owls hooted as the hours went on.
"He could still return," d'Artagnan said again. It wasn't the same. Treville was no longer captain, Athos was, and with his change of position came changes to his duties, Aramis was gone, and they were left trying to find solid ground while navigating the future of France with a war breathing down their necks. Change was hard, unwelcome, and for the first time since joining the Musketeers d'Artagnan felt a sense of loss. Even his situation had changed. He was married, and he had a wife to look after and the potential for a family. All of that brought more responsibility, and it required different commitments and different views of the world.
"Get some rest, d'Artagnan," Athos said as he shifted. "I'll wake you in a few hours."
"You always say that and never do," d'Artagnan said, but lay back anyway. "I hope we don't get rained on." He closed his eyes and dozed.
Porthos shifted restlessly again and stared at the fire. He avoided eye contact with Athos and gripped the blanket tighter around his shoulder. His disappointment, frustration, and anger still evident as he glared at the flames as though the fire itself had stopped Aramis from deciding to return.
The fire cracked and sparks flew upward and floated through the barren branches of the tree that canopied them. It was not a lot of protection, but the thick and abundant branches would shield them from the weather should it change. The light of the flames flickered off Athos' face as he leaned forward, rested his elbow on his raised right knee, and tossed another twig into the flames.
"When we receive our orders to war," Porthos said, looked up, and watched Athos as he nodded and looked toward him, "will Minister Treville allow us to fight alongside one another?"
Athos nodded and curled his lips into a sad smile. "The Musketeers will remain strong together, Porthos, regardless of where or with whom we fight."
Porthos nodded. "He should have come back with us." He watched the flames of the fire, lost in thought.
"Give him time," Athos said.
Porthos growled and shook his head. "How much time does 'e need, Athos?" He looked up. "He abandoned everythin'," he paused and flared his nostrils, "he walked away."
"So did you," Athos said firmly, and met Porthos' eyes.
Porthos took a deep breath, rubbed his face, and nodded. "But I came back."
"Because Aramis fought like hell for you…" Athos grabbed another twig and rolled it between his finger and thumb. "Don't judge him too harshly."
Porthos nodded, rubbed the tip of his nose with his thumb, and listened to the fire crack and spark as the night wore on.
